The Serpent's Secret (Kiranmala and the Kingdom Beyond #1)(17)

“It’s Mr. Madan Mohan, Esquire!” he snapped. “Well, what is it? I haven’t got all day!”

“Well, Mr. Esquire, I wanted to see your”—I paused to read the sign, not wanting to offend the shopkeeper again—“motivational motion device.”

“Hmm. I was just going to oil and curl my moustache,” Mr. Madan Mohan, Esquire, muttered. “What use have you for it anyway?”

“How can I know what use I have for it if I haven’t even seen it?”

“Then it’ll be just as well you come back tomorrow. Or better yet, next week.” The man took out a metal rod and began to pull down the corrugated shutters in front of the shop. “Maybe next month, there’s a good girl.”

I was getting irritated. “If you’re not willing to show it, how do you ever expect to sell it?”

“Sell it?” Mr. Madan Mohan, Esquire, put back up the shutters with a snap. “For money? Why that’s a splendid thought! Why didn’t I think of that myself?” The little man reached over the counter and pumped my hand. “There’s a reason that you’re in the business that you’re in!”

I snatched back my arm. “I’m not in any business! You’re the one in business. I just wanted to see what you’re selling—in case I need it to run away from a rakkhosh!”

“Yes, of course you do! Why didn’t you say so before?” His moustache quivered.

I rolled my eyes. Someone needed some lessons in basic capitalism. But before I could turn away, the tiny shopkeeper came out of the stall with the most amazing contraption.





A wooden frame balanced on Mr. Madan Mohan’s shoulders, and from the back of this frame rose a long stick extending beyond the man’s head. From this stick, parallel to the ground, was what looked like a fishing pole whose end dangled just beyond the man’s nose.

“What is that?”

“Just see!” He took a bag of potato chips from his pocket, attached it to the end of the fishing pole, then let the line out a little farther from a handle he held.

Even though he had just put them there himself, Mr. Madan Mohan, Esquire, went a little crazy at the sight of the potato chips. Glassy eyed and drooling, he started chasing the chips farther and farther down the street, as if not realizing that all he had to do was reel them in.

“Wait! Wait!” I ran after the little man.

He was so fast, it took me a few seconds to catch up with even his short legs.

“This is your invention? A fishing pole with a bag of chips at the end?”

“What do you know about it?” The shopkeeper seemed ready to keep running, so I grabbed the potato chips from the pole. This incensed the little man even further.

“Thief! Thief!” he shouted, his face purple.

“Wait a minute! Take the bag!” I thrust it at the man. “I didn’t steal anything from you! I was just wondering why anyone would need chips if they were running from a demon. I mean, wouldn’t that be motivation enough?”

“But they’re vinegar and chili flavored!” he said, as if this explained it all. Then his face turned purple again and he continued to shout. “Thief! Thief! You’re part of that band that stole my moustache last week!”

Mr. Madan Mohan, Esquire, yelled so much that a small crowd gathered. I tried hard not to laugh.

“This girl has stolen my moustache!” The man pointed a spindly finger at me.

A portly police constable pushed his way forward of the group. “Brother Madan, calm yourself. When did this theft occur?”

“Last week!” the little man shouted. “Yesterday! Tomorrow!” With each word, his moustache twitched and danced.

The crowd rumbled, and I felt my amusement congeal into fear. I heard someone hiss the word “stranger.”

The constable wrote down the shopkeeper’s accusations in a tiny notebook. In fact, the notebook was so tiny, he had to keep flipping pages with each and every word he wrote. “Last”—flip—“week”—flip—“yesterday”—flip—“tomorrow.” He mouthed the words as he wrote, sounding them out.

“Wait a minute!” I protested. “No one stole it—your moustache is right on your face!” But my heart was starting to gallop. What was the punishment for theft in this place? Jail? Whipping? Being forced to eat gross snack foods? Something worse?

“Don’t believe her!” The little man shook his fist. “She’s a practiced liar! She came to sell me her rakkhosh-slaying invention!”

“I didn’t!” I protested. “I wanted to see your invention!”

“You see? A liar through and through! First she tells me she doesn’t like vinegar and chili chips and now that my moustache is on my face!”

“You don’t like vinegar and chili chips?” The constable took a step toward me. I put my hands up, and tried to back away, but the people behind me pushed me forward.

“Look!” a shrill voice piped up from the crowd. It was a round-eyed boy in too-big clothes, and he pointed at the shopkeeper. “His moustache is on his face!”

It was like a miracle.

The shopkeeper touched his considerable facial hair. “So it is! She must have snuck it back when I wasn’t looking!”